FaceOff (26 page)

Lily landed on her ass and rolled away from the falling body; the scalpel tinkled to the ground six feet away. “That was not optimal,” she said, as she got back to her feet and turned to look down at the body.

After that, it was mostly routine: checking the tape, calling crime scene. Andy Pitt had two bullet holes in his head, one right through the forehead and out the back, and the second in one temple and out the other.

As the scene was taped off, Lucas stepped over to Amelia and asked, “You okay?”

“I’m okay. How about you?”

“I’m okay,” he said. He looked her over and said, “Do you know that you smile when you pull the trigger?”

THEY SAT IN GOVERNMENT-ISSUE FURNITURE
and wheelchair, across from the chief of detectives. His office.

Lucas, Lily, Amelia, and Lincoln. They were here for what Lincoln joked was the post postmortem. Maybe in bad taste, but nobody was all that upset that Andy Pitt was lying in the morgue at the moment.

Markowitz was on a call (nodding subconsciously, from which Lincoln deduced he was speaking, well, most likely
listening,
to his boss, the commissioner). Lincoln looked around. He thought the office was pretty nice. Big, ordered, with nice views, though Lincoln had no use for views. His town house, for instance, offered a nice scene of Central Park. He invariably ordered Thom to close the curtains.

Distracting.

Finally, Markowitz hung up. His gaze incorporated them all. “Everybody upstairs’s happy. I was worried, they were worried, well, it was a little radical what you wanted to do. But it worked out.”

Lincoln shrugged—one of the few gestures he was capable of—and turned his chair slightly to face Markowitz. “The plan was logical, the execution competent,” he said. Those were about his highest forms of praise.

It was Lucas who’d initially come up with the theory of who’d killed Verlaine and set Lily up.

Amelia, you know somebody in the NYPD evidence room?

He had a possible source for the shell casing with Lily’s fingerprint on it: the crime scene where she’d tapped Levon Pitt. Sure enough, the evidence log from that crime reported three slugs recovered but only two spent casings. Somebody, possibly, had pocketed the third.

“Okay, the gun at Verlaine’s belonged to Levon Pitt. The shell casing at Verlaine’s had been Lily’s, fired when Pitt was shot,” Lucas had pointed out when they’d learned this. “How could
they be linked? Only through the one individual who had a connection to them both: Andy Pitt, Levon’s son, the kid who had—supposedly—been held hostage by his father.”

But what, Lucas speculated, if he hadn’t been a hostage? What if he was his father’s accomplice in the serial shootings back then? And he was enraged that Lily had killed his father?

It made sense, Lincoln had agreed, and he’d pointed out that Andy might’ve met Verlaine through his father’s junkyard, where, possibly, the sculptor bought metal for his art.

They’d found where the young man lived and worked and set up surveillance.

But no evidence implicated him. They needed more. They had to flush him, force him into making a move.

And Lincoln had come up with a plan. Using Lily as bait. They’d proved to Markowitz she was innocent and asked him to make the initial press announcement to that effect. Then Amelia contacted more reporters. Lily, too, had made her statement.

That virtually guaranteed that Andy knew Lily was getting close. He’d have to make his move.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Markowitz said. “I mean, you, Lucas, coming all the way from Minneapolis. That was really above and beyond the call.”

“Glad to help out.”

“Better get back to it.” Markowitz’s attention was elsewhere now. He was glancing at the notepad on which he’d jotted notes during his conversation with the commissioner. There were a lot of notes.

But nobody rose. Lincoln glanced at Lily, who was the senior law officer here. She said, “Stan, just one thing we were thinking about. One loose end, sort of.”

Still distracted. “Loose end?” He was ticking off something on the paper in front of him.

“You know what occurred to us? Remember we had the idea that somebody was using Verlaine to kill those women? Well, what if it wasn’t Verlaine they were using, but Andy Pitt?

“Huh? I don’t get it.”

Lily continued, “Sure, he had a motive to get even with me. But that doesn’t mean somebody else didn’t force him or hire him to kill those women, and Verlaine.”

Amelia said, “Like maybe somebody from Narcotics Four, after all. Andy Pitt never got to tell us why he picked those women. Why? Maybe the women could provide good info on drug operations in the city. Maybe it was Andy who got recruited by somebody in Narc Four.”

“And another thing that we were pondering,” Lincoln said. “Who exactly was it doing everything he could to protect the unit? The one who insisted that the killings had to be the work of a psycho, nothing to do with any cops?”

Lily took over again. “That’d be you, Stan.”

If the words didn’t have Markowitz’s full attention, the Glock that Lily drew and pointed more or less in his direction sealed the deal.

THE CHIEF OF DETECTIVES SIGHED.
“Goddamnit.”

“What’s the story, Stan?” Amelia asked. Voice cold. She tossed her hair. Lucas was still looking.

There was a pause.

“All right,” Markowitz muttered. “I
did
pull some strings to get the drug side of the investigation downplayed.”

“Let me guess,” Lily snapped. “Because the women were tortured and killed to get information on the drug player in town so Narc Four could become the shining star of the department.”

“Guess again, Detective.” Markowitz gave a guttural laugh. “Do you think there might’ve been some
other
reason why Narc Four has such a great conviction record—other than hiring a psycho to torture and kill users?”

No one replied.

“How ’bout because the fucking head of Narc Four was on the take.”

“Marty Glover?”

“Yeah. Exactly. We’ve suspected it for six months. Sure, the team was collaring suppliers and importers and meth cookers all over the city—except for one location. A big heroin distribution operation based in Red Hook, Brooklyn.” He tapped a file on his desk. “Glover was on their payroll and using Narc Four to take down their competition. The others on the team weren’t in on it. All they knew was that Glover had good sources.”

Markowitz waved at Lily’s weapon as if it were an irritating wasp. “Could you? Do you mind?”

She holstered the Glock, but kept her hand near the grip.

The COD continued. “But the Internal Affairs Red Hook operation against Glover had nothing to do with Verlaine or Pitt, or the torture-murders. It was just a coincidence the women were druggies, the victims. But then you started
looking
for connections. Glover freaked out. I thought he was gonna rabbit, go underground and burn the evidence. So I told you to back off. That’s all there was to it.”

Lucas asked, “What happened with Glover?”

“I didn’t want to move so fast but there was no choice. I called Candy Preston—from Narc Four—and we set up a sting to nail Glover. I had her use one of her snitches to offer him a payoff. Fifty thousand. I didn’t think he’d go for it, but he couldn’t resist. We got him on camera taking the bribe. It’s not as righteous a collar
as we’d like—I wanted some of the Red Hook scum, too. But the prosecutor’ll work him over. He’ll give up names if we play with the sentencing.”

Lincoln gave him points for credibility. But he remained skeptical.

Lucas, too, apparently. He said, “Good story, Stan. But I think we’d all like confirmation. Who can we talk to who’ll vouch for you?”

“Well, there’s somebody who’s been in the loop from the beginning of the Red Hook op.”

“Who?”

“The mayor.”

Lincoln glanced toward Lucas and said, “Works for me.”

·  ·  ·

Outside, they headed toward the accessible van, where Thom sat in the driver’s seat. He saw the entourage and hit the button that opened the door and lowered the ramp. Then he climbed out.

Lincoln wheeled up to the van then braked to a stop, spun around. “Anyone care to come back to the town house for an
aperitivo
? It’s approaching cocktail hour.”

“Bit early,” the aide pointed out. Such a mother hen.

“Thom, our guests have had an extremely traumatic time. Kidnapping was involved, knives were involved, gunplay was involved. If anybody deserves a bit of refreshment, it’s them.”

“Love to,” Lucas offered. “But I’m heading back to the family. Got a flight in an hour.”

“I’m going to make sure he gets to the airport,” Lily said. “Without getting into any trouble.”

They shook hands. Lincoln wheeled onto the ramp and his aide
fixed the chair to it with canvas straps. The criminalist said, “We should think about doing this again, Davenport.”

Thom lifted his eyebrow. “Last name. Means he likes you. And he doesn’t like many people.”

Lincoln grumbled. “I’m not saying I like anyone. Where did that subtext come from? I’m simply saying this case didn’t turn out to be the disaster it might have.”

“I may not be back here soon,” Lucas said, and cocked his head. “But you ever get to Minnesota?”

“Used to go quite a bit.”

“You’ve been?” Amelia asked.

“Of course. I grew up in the Midwest, remember,” Lincoln said impatiently. “I’d go fishing for muskie and pike in Swan Lake and Minnetonka.”

“You
fished
?” Thom asked. He seemed astonished.

“And I’ve been to Hibbing. A Bob Dylan pilgrimage.”

“Site of the largest open-pit iron mine in the world,” Lucas said.

Lincoln nodded. “My first impression was that it’d be a great place to dispose of bodies.”

“Had the same thought myself.”

“Then it’s settled,” Rhyme muttered. “You catch any good cases up there—something
interesting,
something
challenging,
give me a call.”

“Lily’s been there, too, helping us out. We could get the team back together.” Lucas glanced at Amelia. “We’ll go out to the range, you and me. I can teach you how to shoot.”

“And we can hit that highway you were mentioning. I’ll give you a few tips on how to drive that toy car of yours.”

“Let’s go, Sachs,” Lincoln called. “We’ve got a crime scene report to write up.”

R
epairman Jack is one of fiction’s most unique characters. F. Paul Wilson created him in 1984’s
The Tomb
—an urban mercenary who hires himself out to fix problems the system can’t or won’t deal with.
The Tomb
became a huge success. Despite that, though, Paul did not write the second Repairman Jack novel until fourteen years later. Why? He says he was afraid Jack would take over his writing career.
Finally, in 1998, Jack returned for what Paul said at the time was “Just one novel.”

But then he did another. And another.

Twenty-two novels later it’s safe to say that Repairman Jack definitely took over Paul’s writing career.

But that’s okay.

Both writer and character came to deeply know each other.

Heather Graham is a publishing dynamo with over one hundred novels to her credit. Romantic suspense, historical romance, vampire fiction, time travel, occult, even Christmas holiday fare. You name it, she’s written it. But Heather’s at her best when she blends a bit of paranormal with real, human evil. And while Heather has been best known in recent years for her Krewe of Hunter novels, her Cafferty and Quinn series has long been simmering in the back of her mind.
Let the Dead Sleep
(2013) began the first adventure for Michael Quinn and Danni Cafferty, followed by
Waking the Dead.

Michael Quinn is a special kind of guy. College football hero, too popular for his own good—eventually an excessive lifestyle causes his death in a hospital emergency room. Brought back to life by a crew of doctors, Quinn becomes a new man, never sure of exactly what he brought back with him from the dead. After meeting up with Danni Cafferty—who’s just inherited her father’s unique curio shop—Quinn finds that Danni will need everything he can give her when she starts collecting on her own. Quinn is much like Paul’s Repairman Jack. Not bound by any rules that conventional law enforcement agents obey. Sure, he knows where the line is drawn, he just chooses to ignore it.